Hubris
by slire
Summary: AUish. Theon escapes to King's Landing in order to rinse, repress and start anew. However, the ancient city holds many mysteries—in particular one that'll ensnare him, containing grotesque sacrifices to the Drowned God. Theon gains help from an unlikely source: Acolyte Ramsay. For a price.
1. the devil eats flies (in hard times)

**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire © George R. R. Martin

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**Hubris**

**Chapter 01: **

**the devil eats flies (in hard times)**

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The lonesome figure stands perfectly still in a ditch near a dirt road. Merchants, horsemen and travellers avoid him. He's covered in rags and reeks of something ancient, like Death. However, the crisp morning air will not let him breathe without warning. He is alive, materially, but feels like a ghost.

(_'What is dead may never die.'_ Memories, swelling. When he'd taken Winterfell, something had cracked. _'But rises again, harder and stronger.'_)

Soon, a trail of wagons reveals themselves, pulled by oxen. The smell hits him like a gust of hot wind; thyme and lavender, of myrtle, goldenrod, rosemary; a mixture sweeter than death.

One wagon stops by ghost's side. The rider turns to him, face concealed under a dark hood, rest of him clothed in black and grey wool.

"I need a n—new identity," he stammers, hands rattling with coins and cold. "Please."

The hooded figure turns away. A girl with a dirty, freckled face peeks out instead. "What's your name?"

"Theon Greyjoy," he answers, and the name tastes like ashes.

"No," the girl says, gesturing him to enter the wagon. "Now you're not."

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The Cut Tongued Carriers.

Smugglers infamous for how it isn't mere objects they carry. They remove their tongues to strengthen their reliability, use orphans as speakers, and excel within the herbal arts. Their wagons creak through the forgotten roads of Westeros, picking up strangers. Murderers, fleeing spouses, illegitimate children, turncloaks; people who want to start fresh and have saved up enough gold to do so. You'd recognize them by the fragrance. It is said that the Carriers are descendants of Faceless Men.

Most people grow up believing they are stories told by wet nurses. But a servant had told Theon Greyjoy it wasn't so, and he had jumped on the opportunity.

_'But I'm not him anymore. His sorrows aren't mine. As of yet, I am nothing.'_

There sleep eight people in each wagon, scanty belongings inside their foot lockers. The children would ask the necessary questions, arrangements would be made, and a ritual would be executed. Some are dropped off in the villages along the way. Others remain longer.

They begun his rebirth the day after he'd arrived, using a citrus scented remedy to bleach his hair ashen. A prickling ointment is smeared on his skin, and he looks like someone had sucked the blood out of him. He's getting thinner. He has a nasty cut bellow his eye from taking an apple not on his plate.

Rebirth is a sacred thing to the Carriers. They chose misty mornings for the final ritual. The Silent gather around a bog hole. Everyone in the company partakes. The rebirthed one stands first, clutching their footlocker. They open it, and take out little pieces of themselves. Sentimental stuff. A letter. A ring. Baby shoes. Dolls. A withered flower. Some have nothing but old rags. The items are passed around to the group, in a circle, while their story is told.

_("My name was Walht. I stole a necklace from a highborn lady when I was a wee lad and that sparked an age of thievery for me. And now I am over." _

_"My name was Maillar. I started selling my body to a noblewoman to afford feeding my family, but they died in a fire and everybody blames me for angering the gods. And now I am over."_

_"My name was Uelin. I loved another man and had a babe by him, but they came in the night and took my little one away. I had my vengeance. And now I am over.")_

When the items reach the owner again, the owner drops it into the bog water. They walk back to the wagons in silence, feeling like they leave something behind.

Not all manage these transitions. Some are left behind, alone on the road. "We deal with life, not death," a girl says when he asks. Scars mar her neck, webbing down her shoulder and back, braided hair drawn aside to exhibit them like high fashion. "You shouldn't look so sad whenever you look at us. We're happier here, and we don't do the cutting until we're older. There's always a choice. Anyone can leave."

"You shouldn't talk to me," Theon says simply. Memories whirl through his head like a storm—a storm underneath his skin—and then, stills. "I've done bad things."

"After spending a lot of time aboard here, you learn to read people. You have kind eyes. And _you_ haven't done anything. Have you picked a name for yourself yet?"

"I'd like to keep my name." He doesn't have anything else. No matter what the answer is, he'll continue to call himself by it, in his head. It'll be his secret. A small rebellion.

"I don't think that'd be possible. You are a hard case, the Silent say. We'll have to alter you a great deal to increase your worth."

That starts the more intense part of his training. The girl shows him (Theon, Theon, he must not forget his name) the "gardens"; the front wagon with a removable cloth on top, allowing sunlight to reach the plants. The Silent trains him in making alcohol and poisons through gestures alone. Some things cannot be learned from books. Theon's hands have bruises and blotches.

"Your father was a merchant, so you have travelled far," a boy declares one morning. "Your mother was a bastard raised among nobles, and therefore taught you subjects unavailable to common folk. You had two older siblings. One girl, one boy. Everyone perished in a fire. You travelled to get away from it all, and you tell curious souls that it pains you to talk about your past."

Theon memorizes it. He's been told to be careful about details, and after receiving the groundwork from the Silent he must build the rest himself.

In the meantime, he starts adapting the scarred girl's reading technique. She is a good teacher. She deals well with volatile individuals—who are committing slow suicides of the self—and she teaches him how to read people. When to avoid them. When to reach out. He learns to see the small twitches a woman does when men come near. He learns to predict actions from one look at the eyes. He learns to thrive in the shadows.

(Theon has a good starting point, after all. He spent years not belonging.)

And one day, _he_—the dead man, the ghost—is over.

A child wakens him a morning, giving him short instructions. The Silent await him outside. Endless swamp in every direction. He thinks of all the things dropped into bog holes identical to this one. In doing so, he remembers the ones before him. Little by little, others go to see the ritual. All he has to give around is a dagger.

"My name was Theon. I've done plenty wrong, but the worst was betraying friends' to gain acceptance from a stranger. And now I'm over."

The dagger drops into the murky waters.

Everybody leaves except Theon, who is stopped by the same child who'd awoken him. "You'll be a barman in the Toothless Tavern, working for Barkeeper Lye. It's located in King's Landing. Your new name is Th'ei."

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The City of Filth. That is what foreigners call it. King's Landing; the king's lavatory.

It smells like boiled urine, and if you think the suburbs stink, this is the _core_ of it. The streets are thick with smallfolk, bumping into each other without apologizes. Bugs, crawling over a carcass. Dirty naked feet. Flies. "Fresh meat and fresh vegetables!" Fresh, fresh, fresh. That is wrong—everything here is dead, according to the stench.

Theon hides his head under an embrowned patchwork cloak, following the scarred girl through cobblestone allies. A Silent follows them like a shadow.

The Toothless Tavern has mildewed walls. There is a pool of liquid oozing out from under the door. For a moment Theon imagines it to be blood instead of beer. He swallows thickly.

"You will receive no more help than this. This life is yours. Do what you wish with it."

He nods. When they leave, there'll be no trace that they've ever been there. "Thank you," he whispers. He turns towards the tavern, but a hand on his sleeve stops him. It's the girl. "Seek out this man. He'll help." She hands him a piece of paper, containing a name in precise handwriting. He puts it in his pocket.

Theon does not look back. Surprisingly, the tavern is smaller than he'd imagined, darker, _cleaner_. There's no shit here. Just dust; an ancient cleanliness. Theon predicts that it has its few regulars who keep the silver coming. He heads for the counter, where a bald man refills a cup. "Excuse me, uh, I'm here about the job...?"

The man pauses. Looks around. Regards Theon, studying him. "You must be Th'ei. I'm Barkeeper Lye. The last barman disappeared a month ago, so you'll have his job and his room in the attic. Meals and housing fees will be subtracted from your salary. Do you have the...?" Theon hands him the pouch of silver stags. One of the Carriers' guarantees. "Good. Do as I say and we'll get along fine."

It sparks another learning period for Theon. Barkeeper Lye is a strict teacher, but underneath the patchwork of rough, callused skin is a gentler man, one who loves his daughter, Vinga, more than anything. He fought in a war once, but he will not say which. Theon mostly cleans and dusts until it is clear that he excels in brewing ale, and is allowed behind the counter. That is the least challenging part.

He does not know this city.

Nearly half a million live in here. People reproduce in great numbers because you never know who's going to live. A boy is murdered for writing a dead king's name backwards on a wall. Another has its head crushed with a vase that falls from a roof. This city eats its young. Slurps them up like little worms, little sacrifices, sucking on its fingers. And Theon doesn't know how to avoid its jaws. He doesn't know its streets, its allies, its hidden corners.

(Barkeeper says, "Never talk to people that don't talk to you, or you'll end up facedown in the water."

Seamstress says, "We all know she did it although I can't prove it, and one of these days I'll kill her with my bare fucking hands."

Bastard girl says, "Blood is nothing when in a pool on the ground, I've checked."

Beggar says, "I made all his sons kill themselves and he still hasn't found out why.")

The final fall is when King's Landing _notices_ him, peering with wide eyes and a hungry mouth. Theon feels its stinking breath on his neck. The city moves through its inhabitants like wind, or a god, and suddenly, they're asking questions. Theon struggles with proper etiquette. Barkeeper Lye keeps them at bay—"don't bother the poor boy, he's had enough" and "by the seven, have some respect, we've all lost a loved one"—but cannot conceal the curious stares (the dripping, drooling mouth).

Theon must adapt or die, or he will be eaten. Some things never change.

That night, lying on his windowsill bed in the attic with his belly full of rat soup—it tastes like nothing if you salt it enough—he reaches out to the crumbled note in his pocket.

_Acolyte Ramsay. _

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Many know him.

They point out directions, begrudgingly, as if the action is a hated chore. The allies thin, and the buildings totter. Used furniture and heaps of garbage fills the area, roamed by stray dogs and cats. Shady people move past him, avoiding eye contact. After a point, they stop being begrudged. The cheap whores and the drunken fools smirk at him. _'You are in trouble,' _their eyes say when he asks for Acolyte Ramsay. _'I'm just glad it isn't me.'_

A mute old man points him up some stairs. Finally. It is a dead end, small paradises on each side. Trees and green plants hang over the foundation, and Theon realizes that they are poisonous. Do people come here to take their own lives? The house at the left is nicer than most in the area, but its eerie atmosphere makes it less desirable. He enters through a curtain door. There seems to be a waiting room. The wall paint makes Theon think of flesh, as if the house was made of it.

"Yes?"

The voice is harsh, tight; serious. It protrudes through the wooden door like a cold knife sliding across Theon's eyeball.

He goes to meet a devil. There is another room within, complete with a table and chairs on each side. Dark deals are made here. Little things tell of the owner's status; calligraphy scrolls, hand painted lacquerwear, and a huge war horn. Maesters aren't supposed to own things like these. He either has noble blood, or he's well paid.

Acolyte Ramsay sits at the other side of the table, arms crossed. He chews on the inside of his cheek; a bored, but contemplative habit. A chain of links hangs from one of his pockets, sewn into his simple, ashen shirt. He isn't yet a maester. There is nothing particularly eerie about him, except the eyes in the colour of oysters.

They betray what moves within.

"What do you want?"

"Information," Theon answers, a bit chokingly.

"Don't we all." Ramsay draws a cloak of manufactured cool over himself—but the sharpness of his eyes doesn't lessen. Despite having very few maester links, there seems to be invisible ones draped over him. "But wanting and receiving are two different things."

"I have silver."

"We don't trade money here," Ramsay says. "We trade information, and skin, and _blood_. It runs thick underneath this city, which was built on dead bodies. If you remove the upper layer, you'd find them. But, alas, you're not from here, are you?"

Theon shakes his head. "I work for Barkeeper Lye. My name is Th'ei, and—"

"You reek of perfume. Why is it always liars that smell like perfume?" Then he adds, "You fit right in here."

"I need more. I don't... I don't know the city. Not anyone else, either."

"Adapt or die." He twitches, blinking out of synch. "Listen, I run a business, not a charity. You have nothing to offer me. You are no one; nothing."

Theon can think of multiple responses to that. _I am a friend and brother of the Starks _(but he is over) _I am the last remaining son of Lord Balon Greyjoy _(but he is over) _I am a conqueror and a turncloak, and I burned my home down _(but he is over)—

_'Fool!'_ Theon chides himself. If he wanted to keep his name—even only in his head—he had to let go. _'You are no one.' _"I'm sorry. I shall leave at once. Thank you for your time, my lord." Theon heads for the door. _'You must not look back. Never. Remember who you are.'_

"Milord, not my lord. Isn't that the very basics on how to disguise yourself?"

Theon dares not turn around.

"Who are you, really?"

"No one. Milord."

He leaves without another word.

The flesh house's curtain blow in the breeze, like a ghost.

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Theon is good at blending in, despite the stares he get from coming from Ramsay's quarters. Sandals click against the stones, but he is silent and grey like the latter. Lanterns are lit along the creased roads. He dwells within his own mind, head hunched, until he bumps into someone.

The person does not flinch.

A screech is heard. Feminine. The person in front of Theon is thrown aside, prompting a domino effect; several others also stumble to the side. A horrified woman runs through the gathering crowd, still screeching. "Move aside!" another voice yells, soldier like. A sword shines in lantern orange and he uses it to make a path. Theon—scrawny, unimportant little Th'ei—squeezes past him. He is confronted with something horrible.

There hangs a corpse on lumbers forming an x, arms and legs erected. Its hands are bound against the lumber. It has been drowned. The skin has a blueish tint, and its mouth is twisted in a final look of panic. It is naked; disclosing its sex as male. Theon prefers to refer to it as an object, not a person. Just a blotchy sack of meat, dripping wet. Small items turn it into an altar. This time it isn't the city demanding sacrifice. Salt is laid in a circle around it, accompanied by scraps of stone and steel. Weapons. Ore. Statues.

"Salt, stone, steel," Theon murmurs, remembering. It is a sacrifice; all ironborn can see that, no matter how many layers hide them. "The Drowned God," he recognizes.

Out of a sudden a hand grabs his shoulder, forcing him forth.

"How the _fuck_ do you know that?"

And suddenly Theon is the centre of attention.


	2. this city, humpbacked and harlot

**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire © George R. R. Martin

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**Hubris**

**Chapter 02: **

**this city, humpbacked and harlot **

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It starts as a black hole feeling in Theon's stomach, twisting and churning till it consumes the whole of him. A rash, spreading from his neck and up. Goose bumps on his arms. Adam's apple bobbing.

"I asked you a question, boy." The man speaking is so big he looks like he's about to burst. The patchwork of scars and veins is the only thing keeping him together. "Answer." The crowd murmurs in agreement. A few shouts echo the big man.

("Answer!" "Answer!" "Answer!")

"My fa—father taught me, sir. He was a merchant. We travelled to the Iron Isles, once. Saw the rituals on the shore."

"A merchant boy, eh?" He grabs Theon's hair, yanking his head upwards. "Sounds more like a _liar_ to me."

("Liar!" "Liar!" "Liar!")

"Not a liar, sir. I'm no one."

"No one?" The man licks his teeth. There's a bit of a cabbage leaf stuck between the front ones. "Thieves are no one. Heretics are no one. Murderers..." He trails off.

Before he can continue the accusations, Barkeeper Lye suddenly appears. "The lad's tellin' the truth," he says. He has a deep and gravely voice. It reminds Theon of the cheapest moonshine he's ever tasted back in Winterfell. "He works for me. Done so for a while now. Let go of him, Tristian."

'Tristian' does, nearly sending Theon sprawling. _'Remember who you are. You are Th'ei, confused and scared. You seek protection from the man resembling your dead father.'_ Theon hurries behind Barkeeper Lye.

"And why would your opinion make a difference?"

Barkeeper Lye steps forth. He looks like a warrior about to charge, and Theon realizes that even the smallfolk has their own little wars. "I grew up here. Sold salmon that fell down on the loading docks until I was grown, and then I fought wars for some king with my friends, fighting together, dying together, and now I serve drinks to tired old men like myself. The city and its citizens _know_ me. They know I can judge character. And this lad..." He ruffles Theon's hair, "...he's lost someone, like us. He's just trying to make his way in the world. And who are we to deny him that?" He has his sword at his enemy's heart, he shoves it forward. "Who are you to deny him that, throwing accusations just because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and sees a bit more than you?" He _twists_ the blade, "Now, the last part isn't that hard."

The crowd laughs. Afterwards it's Tristian they turn their slobbering jaws towards, asking why. Lye pulls Theon backwards to become a part of the mass, yelling a few questions for good measure.

"Quiet!" A knight arrives, jumping off his horse. His squire—a blotchy, piglet like boy—follows him. Theon recognizes the horse breed as a cheap one, and from the crowd's continuous murmurs he realizes the knight isn't that respected. "I'm Sir Garryt Longbough, the new watchman for this area. Heard there was some trouble." He raises an eyebrow at the corpse. "Seven hells. Seems like a creative fucker did this."

"Moron's called Longbow 'cos he's the first of his family to fail at handling the weapon," an adult whispers to a child. Theon realizes that to survive you are dependant on knowing everyone, everything, and your place in it all. No wonder King's Landing's dead count is so high.

"Anyone have any information about this?" Upon their frowns, Longbow exclaims, "I'm a knight, I just arrest whoever's responsible."

"Should I tell him?" Theon whispers.

Barkeeper Lye shrugs. "No one would blame you if you didn't, Th'ei, because no one likes Longbow except that ugly lapdog of his. Probably he who ran and told."

Theon takes a step forward, still uncertain, but is stopped mid movement. There is a hand on his elbow. A girl is standing there, hair so light she doesn't appear to have eyebrows. "Don't," he says hoarsly. "Don't, or _he_'ll be mad." Theon notices something deeply unnerving—two off the girl's fingers are flayed. But she backs away before Theon can question their state. She's gone as if he's never existed. Two reddish stains on Theon's arms remains. The flaying has happened recently. His goose bumps return.

He follows Barkeeper Lye away from the crime scene.

The blue, bloated corpse is the last thing he sees.

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They do not talk about it afterwards. Theon does not leave the bar. Instead he cleans a lot of dust as repayment to Barkeeper Lye, and compliments Lye's daughter on her bird stews. He sleeps in the attic, rereading the little pile of embrowned books, mostly on sky coordinates, cooking and maps of Westeros. There's one containing fairy tales, which he prefers the most.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens until Barkeeper Lye decides Theon sends him on a house call to buy a mortar and pestle set. It is late, and the sunset paints the city gold, even the shittier parts of it. The shop is three houses from the Toothless Tavern with a big pink sign depicting various house wares. "You can't go wrong."

Theon really, really hope this is true.

The cobblestone is soft beneath his new woven cord sandals; Barkeeper Lye's old ones, one size too big. Theon manages to nod politely at those glancing at him, and in most cases, the nod is returned. He arrives there quickly enough.

The Happy Bucket is full of what you'd expect: bowls, pots, jugs, cups, flatware; in steel and wood and a selected few of precious stones. They're lined up at the many rows of shelves, filled to the brink. There's a young lady behind the counter. Her skin is in the same beige colour as the walls, so she's hard to spot. Theon goes to greet her.

Again, a hand stops him.

Theon is about to turn around with questions on his tongue, fully expecting to see the light haired girl, when the voice halts him. It sounds like a ham that's been too long in the smokehouse—lighter than Barkeeper Lye's, but at the same time, _darker_. Theon recognizes it at once.

Acolyte Ramsay.

"Listen to my instructions carefully, I will not repeat myself. The full price for that set is one star. But nobody would buy it for that, so you need to bargain. Now, you can't pose as a snivelling mess, you need to be convincing. What do you have that she wants? Think."

_'You are no one. You have nothing.'_ "I don't know."

"What is your current trade?"

This is happening very fast, and Theon struggles to keep up. "I'm a... barman."

"Good boy," Ramsay mocks. "And what does barmen do?"

"We serve... drinks." And then he understands. Theon Greyjoy stirs in his grave, and the one who bears his name allows him to resurface. Just for a little bit. The kraken boy raises his ugly head, and goes to talk to the seller. The confidence isn't quite as natural as it was before, but a glimpse of it is recreated, and a glimpse is enough. "Don't you think this is a bit expensive, lady?"

She shrugs. "Gotta survive somehow."

"I see. I propose a bargain, then. I'm a barman, working over at the Toothless."

"Do you really think I care for that nasty stuff you men drink? Beer? Ale?"

"Of course not." Although he is very changed, Theon's crooked smile remains. It doesn't make the girls as wet anymore, but it has its lingering effects. "Thought more of a cider like drink. Honey drop, perhaps?"

"My father would kill me if I did." Her eyes widen at the mention of the drink. Young girls often drink it together in quiet evenings, recipe passed down from mischievous grandmothers. When can I come?"

"Whenever you want. I work there everyday, so I'll be there."

"Well… Alright then, you'll get the mortar for half the price."

Theon pays, and puts it in a boiled leather satchel. As soon as he turns and sees Acolyte Ramsay, the Greyjoy princeling shatters. Ramsay studies him, still shrouded in darkness. Then he swiftly turns around. "Follow me."

Ramsay moves fast.

He strides through a passageway—Theon never would've spotted—leading to another shop. He realises that the shops are all connected through narrow corridors and half hidden doors; people moving in and over and bellow King's Landing. Theon remembers the carcass metaphor. Ramsay disappears for a split second and when Theon follows a chicken is beheaded right in front of him.

The shop is a slaughterhouse with a huge back yard, with a "meat bar" up front. There's so much blood you can taste the copper. All sorts of meat are loaded in skewers, ovens, barrels, buckets. Cooked, grilled, salted, fresh. Mostly greased pork ("From pigs without white ulcers under their tongues, which means quality," Ramsay explains curtly), muttons, fattened poultry like geese, chicken, even turkey… The finer things are furthest behind the desk. Young animals. Veal and lamb. Even bear. For the poorer; squirrel, hedgehog, other small rodents, and sinewy dog meat. "You don't order the finer things unless you're rich, or want to stand out," Ramsay instructs him. "See the fat man over there? He always orders bear. Thinks it'll transfer its strength to him. Most think he's mad, and his business is failing because of it. Come along now."

Unlike Ramsay, who moves through the shop like an agile wolf, Theon struggles not to bump into people. He staggers after him through another corridor. They pass through a miniature whorehouse, in which Ramsay exchanges a few words with the madam there. Next stop is a perfume store, masking the stink of sex and animal death. After that, some vegetable stands, shouting their prices. Ramsay gives advice in quick, short sentences, mentioning that this district was abandoned before, but more and more stores flock here after the opening of a Dornish bathhouse.

The impromptu lessons do not lessen until about two hours later, when Theon's feet are sore and his breathing is irregular. They stop on a rooftop, overlooking the city. The wind carries scents of meat and spices, and Theon thinks back on the Cut Tongued Carriers. Some cats in a tower window sing. Kids play tag. It is late, and he can hear parents shouting at them to return home.

"I believe we are alone, here." Ramsay finally turns to look at Theon. His face is as blank as before, although there is a tenseness there that speaks volumes. He is a dangerous man, this one. "I've reconsidered your offer. I'll help you get to know this city, if you help me."

"With what?"

Ramsay raises an eyebrow. "With the murders. And yes, there'll be more. And I don't know your involvement with the ironborn, but there's no one else I can ask." No one else weak enough for him to trust. "The deal is simple. I help you fit into this city, you'll help me with the murders."

Theon thinks of the grotesque, blue corpse. A chance to do something good. He looks at Ramsay and realizes he never had a choice in the first place. "Alright. I'll help you."

"Good. But if you go against my words, I promise you..."

Ramsay moves forward, so he's standing shoulder to shoulder with Theon. His eyes slide over to Theon. There it is again—the madness, glinting, cold like ice. A thousand hungry maggots, writhing within. He grips Theon's chin, like a lover.

"No one will ever find the pieces."

Theon swallows.

Ramsay does not smile as he brushes past him. "I'll get you when it's happened."

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Theon goes back to being Th'ei for a while, until a girl—a new one this time, about two years shy of womanhood and lacking a fingernail—summons him to the world behind the walls, the one Ramsay introduced him to. It is in the middle of the night, making torches the only light bringers. Ramsay holds one high, guiding them. The girl bows and leaves. They exchange no words. This is not a touring trip; this is to demonstrate Theon's end of the deal.

"The tales say these passages were not built by kings, but by common folk. The ones meant for kings habit far more sinister people. The important thing is that we do not talk about them. I'm sure some nobles are aware, but they do not interfere. They you can still find bones of the last knight that went here, painted brown and used as torch holders."

"Does everybody use the passages?"

"No, or we wouldn't be alone right now. This is place is ill-omened, being in shadows and all. People only use them when they're in hurry, and those who see themselves above the crime of hiding from the _true _side do not use it at all. Tch." The acolyte was losing interest. Theon could hear it. Bad things happened when dangerous men lost interest. "So, what should I call you?"

"Th'ei, milord."

"Hm. If you're worrying about people hearing us, calm down. I sent a bitch through here to check for listeners. There's no secret tunnels in this area." Ramsay sighs. "Do you know _why_ they call me a lord?"

"Noble blood?"

"Yes, yes, that too, but all maesters or maesters in learning lose their family name. Then why?" Sometimes, he seems to have endless patience. But only with things that amuses him, Theon realises.

"People respect you."

"Correct. But nobody respects Th'ei, because he's no one. Here, everybody is someone, from the beggar to noble. It might fool smallfolk, but _I am not one of them_. So who are you?"

"No one, my lord."

"Hm. Slow learner. Was your crime that bad? Was it murder? Rape? Incest, maybe? Or all three?"

"I haven't done anything, my lo— um, _milord_."

Ramsay stops. He seems to contemplate something, tongue moving inside his mouth like a fat worm. Then, as suddenly as he stopped, he grabs Theon's shoulder and slams him into the wall. He is very calm while doing so. "Answer me about this, then. Are you in danger of being recognised? Because that could reflect bad on me. Your disguise is clever enough, but not if you're a mass murderer."

"Nobody will recognise me." It is a stupid thing to smile at, and he always did smile at the wrong things. He's actually afraid. Ramsay watches him for a second, mildly disgusted, then lets go and continues walking as if nothing happened.

Silence resides, except for a family of mice running about, one of which is heavily pregnant. Ramsay crushes it with his boot. He does not walk softly; instead his metal soles click upon the gravel and grit beneath him. There are numerous doors and deviating paths, but Ramsay walks without pausing.

"We're here."

The hole in the wall (with a greyed bear skin draped over it) is so dilapidated that Theon think it'll fall apart if he touches it. Both he and Ramsay bends. A cellar greets them, well lit because of a remarkable amount of candles. Ramsay and Theon remains hidden behind numerous wine barrels and gigantic cobwebs. There's dry rot in the corner.

Severeal men are gathered around a table, mumbling amongst themselves. Maesters. Varying chain lengths, but Theon recognises the silver link, meaning a specialisation in healing and medicine. Little by little, they start leaving until only one remains; a scrawny, bearded maester with a rather short chain. There's a corpse at the table. Theon recognises it to be the drowned one who hung on the wall a week ago before the maester throws a linen cloth over it.

Ramsay steps forth. "Maester Maekar," he greets, a tad more polite than usual.

"Ramsay!" Maester Maekar's arms shoot up in greeting, grinning with surpassingly pristine teeth, until he suddenly realises the seriousness of the situation. "Wait, you're not supposed to be here, are you? You know what Tybald would say."

"Tybald doesn't need to know."

"B—bu—but—"

"Do you recall that girl you talked about, Fisher Weller's youngest? Freshly flowered? A little on the plump side but you liked her regardless?" The old maester's wrinkles stretch in anticipation. Ramsay continues in the same neutral tone, "The mother needs money to pay off gambling dept. Her girl's maidenhead went for a nice price." Ramsay throws a key over to Maekar. "Use this to enter her bedchamber a night when you feel the thirst. And don't worry, it's paid for already. Consider it a gift from a friend."

"_Oh..._ thank you Ramsay. No one ever thinks of an old man's needs…"

Ramsay's eyes are half lidded. "I understand desire very well, Maester Maekar. And right now, I would like to have a look at the body. For learning purposes only, of course."

"Learning purposes, ah, yes. Wait, who's he?"

Theon gulps. Ramsay merely continues in the same lazy drawl, "A friend." The shadows contort his face, and the moment, he resembles another Bolton, rage and sorrow looking very much the same. The façade is practiced, Theon can tell, because there are cracks no yet mended.

"Tybald wouldn't like that either..."

"Are you not going to use the key, then?" Ramsay asks lightly.

Maekar shuts up. He abruptly turns, muttering, "I saw nothing," before pushing aside a big wooden door, vanishing.

"Now," Ramsay says, "tell me what you see. And be quick. Maekar is a cheap fuck and wouldn't have paid those guards enough to look the other way all night."

Careful, he removes the cloth. It reveals the head and upper shoulders. Someone has closed the dead man's mouth.

Theon stares at it. "It's a sacrifice to the Drowned God. Around the man, there was certain… elements, making me sure. A circle of salt. Daggers. Bits of a sword. Statues of stone. Even raw ore lumps. And the body was drowned in saltwater."

"How do you know it was saltwater?"

(Him and some other children had once found a body in a pond in the goodswood behind Winterfell. A boy who'd loved someone he could not have, they learned later. They weren't even aware he was a boy, then, because his skin had been so swollen; degloved, and when a girl too naive to recognise death tried shaking him awake, she accidentally ripped a piece of. Maester Luwin had explained the process, and for once, Theon had listened. _"Dying in fresh water is much worse than in saltwater. Fresh water, as in the drinkable water in a swamp or bog, makes your insides swell and burst. Your blood even thickens."_)

"Too clean." Theon looks over at Ramsay, wondering if his words were enough. "How do _you _know this will happen again?"

"Just do. So why would anyone drown this man in particular?"

Theon regards the body.

Muscular. Male. Ashen brown hair, darker beard. Grey skinned. They'd begun the embalming process, with oils of rosemary and lavender, spices, a bed of herbs and chemicals to keep away insects and mites. It does not mask the stench completely. The body was remotely fresh when he'd first seen it, and that was 10 nights ago. The incense smoke makes Theon's throat feel raw. The man's eyes are closed. Theon reaches out to open them.

And Ramsay nearly stabs a knife through his hand. Theon falls backwards. It gets stuck in the table, and Ramsay has to yank it out. "Don't. Touch that." He blinks, retreating into his shell. "Ask me first. What do you want with them?"

Theon wait a moment before answering. "To find the eye colour. He has the characteristics of an ironborn. Hair, skin, scars, build… Warrior like. Back in the old days, they used to bury a lord with his ship _and_ soldiers, not only thralls and saltwives."

"You asked me how I knew." Ramsay grabs the cloth and tears it off, revealing a taste for the dramatic. A new stink oozes from the wound. The man has been opened, the stitches tell. Ramsay points to another table to the left of them, full of silver coins. "Those were found in his belly, apparently."

"It's to honour him, I think. Maybe send a token to the Drowned God's watery halls. This is planned, milord. But this is not someone seeking vengeance."

"It is... impersonal, yes. No slash marks. No love marks. No signs of struggle, either. The murderer isn't doing it for themselves, and they certainly isn't doing it for us. Must be pure faith." Ramsay throws the cloth over the body. "But let's go. We've been here too long already. Let's go to… the roof! Yes, no one will hear us there."

This time, Theon is starting to recognise the last part of the tunnel, remembering the picture of a naked woman with huge tits branded into a particular wall. Other than that, he learns to recall different coloured stones, special animal bones and other minor things to guide him through the labyrinth until they reach the roof.

Theon asks the first question. "The person that did this, he's gonna do it again?"

"Someone with this level of dedication doesn't just stop. This is just the beginning. We don't know who this man is, but your information might help me find him. Not many men with iron blood around here."

"How?"

"Think of it as a giant web that stretches everywhere. Some spiders reigns over a small part, and others over bigger parts. A very few almost everything, so that when they touch a thread, the whole thing shakes. This… This is my part of the web."

Ramsay steps towards the edge of the building. Fires are being put out. People are closing their shops, and a pink faced drunkard is thrown out of a bar, collapsing in the soil. Cows are being moved from one place to another. So many details to take in; so many details to learn should he wish to become one of those people.

"It is not big, this district. But it's mine. Everything is built from scratch. I need information, and I get it."

"So you have free reign, then?"

"Free? Me?" Ramsay's half smile vanishes. He kicks a stone out from the roof, turning to Theon. His mouth twists into a sneer—and there it i, savagery, unhinged. It becomes more apparent the more time he spends with Ramsay. He holds up his hands, "There are chains here, more than you can imagine. I'm draped in them. They stretch even beyond King's Landing. I have not been free since I was a child." Violence implodes inside him. He starts pacing back and forth, blowing off steam. "I have been in the dark for so long, chained, unable to grow."

Theon is not used to outbursts like this. But he's curious. "What didn't grow?"

Ramsay grins, eyes wide in childlike interest. "Do you want me to show you?"

Theon chooses not to answer. It takes time for the storm to seep out of Ramsay, for his shoulders to sink, and for his face to adapt the usual façade. Despite Theon's uneasiness, there is something very fascinating about Acolyte Ramsay. _'I always did smile at the wrong things.'_

A scream echoes through King's Landing.

It comes from about two blocks away, but Theon and Ramsay can see it from the building they're standing at. If you weren't looking for something in particular, one would dismiss it as sacks of wheat, if one spotted it at all. Four sacks, to be exact, hanging from a tower. Four little sacks of skin and bone and meat.

"Children," Theon murmurs.

Acolyte Ramsay reacts in a different manner. He's _excited_. "The higher ups are bound to pick up on this one. Looks like we have a human butcher running wild."

Theon wonders if he is standing beside one.


	3. fucking with your film noir

**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire © George R. R. Martin

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**Hubris**

**Chapter 03:**

**fucking with your film noir**

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_The Iron Islands are full of folklore. The lore passed on orally along with the Old Way, hindering outsiders from knowing. "Can a book kill a man?" is a common saying among ironmen and women, illiterate and cocky. The fact that culture might change depending on the teller's tongue does not unnerve them. Change is a part of life. Waves crash in and carve new landscapes like the ironborn themselves. The legends themselves remain as harsh as them. Bedtime stories are a big thing on the Iron Islands. _

_Reasons for this may vary, but one of the main ones is to keep children from being swallowed by the ocean. The waves and currents are treacherous to those who cannot read the sea, and the Drowned God ingests whoever steps too far out in his domain. The children never forget these stories, not even children far, far away. _

_The Dead Cliffs is a well known legend features Blacktyde, the Iron island furthest north. It takes place during Urron Greyiron's early reign. After he had killed the potential salt and rock kings at the kingsmooth, their descendants proved difficult. The self named High Kinship of the Isles then took one daughter and one son of each disobeying family and bound them to the cliffs of Blacktyde. He lit fires alongside the heirs, forcing the families to watch as the tide rose. It is said that fishermen passing through the area have seen lights from the cliffs and heard bloodcurdling cries._

"...The Dead Cliffs, huh?"

Theon blinks, watching pebbles disappear out of the hole as he regains balance. "Yes, milord. Common legend among ironmen. Was shared over mugs of aquavit at the Dancing Cod at Harlaw. Regulars would join in, nitpicking on details and trying to scare travellers like me and my father off."

Ramsay's tongue starts rummaging around in his mouth again. "Sounds trustworthy enough."

They currently stand at the second floor of a bootleg opium boutique slash lawful pet store, where a misfiring canon had blown a hole in the wall. Perfect view of the dead bodies nailed to the tower. The crowd is larger this time. Men die all the time, thus it's a larger tragedy when children do.

"Can you see anything from here?" Theon asks.

"Must've hung there for a while. Must be another sacrifice to the Drowned God. Skin on their feet is more gnawed on than the upper body. Fish, I think."

Theon doesn't wish to know how Ramsay sees this from this great a distance. "He uses saltwater. The sea, probably."

Someone is cutting the children down, now, removing the ropes of their tiny branch wrists. Maesters roam the crime scene. Knights push the onlookers away. From up there, they look like ants.

"Building a water supply into your house is possible. The killer's dedicated. His work is very clean. There's something... Can't name it, but there's _something_..." As the bodies hit the cobblestone bellow—the sounds they make is just like that of wheat sacks—Ramsay finally gets it. "Pride. _That's_ it."

Theon barely remembers what pride feels like. He wonders how a single feeling can create such destruction.

"Won't receive more information on it until after tomorrow. The involved will have a brief shock and mourning period before warming up to briberies. I'm just glad we have a real killer on our hands. Makes things _exciting_."

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The next morning, Barkeeper Lye's daughter wakes him. He yells in surprise. Vinga shushes him. "Man outside," she whispers. "Said I had to summon you, and that I mustn't tell Father. Gave me _this_." She shows Theon a small flute, proud. Yet there is a slight contortion of her face, a tremble of the corner of her lip. "Said if I told Father, he'd sell me to the paedophile wagon downtown. Whatever that means, I don't like the sound of it. Please go see him."

Theon doesn't quite know what to reply. "I'll... I'll go see him. Thank you." Vinga sprints out of the attic, and he finds that she'd already prepared a bowl of wash water, drying cloth and a plate of wheat flax chips with garlic hummus. The curious girl has tried to get closer to him before, but he eludes her every try. _'Nobody should be close to me,'_ Theon thinks as he wraps himself in a thin wool cloak over his standard charcoal grey outfit. Her food is substantial. He will thank her for it later. The lukewarm water brings him relief. His after growth tells him he'll soon need to produce more of the citrus remedy.

The acolyte must know his work hours. The Toothless Tavern does not open until midday. Of course, Ramsay does not wait inside the bar itself. Theon walks a few yards to the nearest tunnel entrance and is snatched up. Ramsay does not greet him. Instead, he walks on, expecting Theon to keep up and never turning to make sure he does.

"His name was Eyjolf Sunderly."

"House Sunderly of Saltcliffe?" Theon blurts.

Ramsay pauses. He is not the man to waste breath, and therefore, decides not to question Theon's intimate knowledge on the houses of the Iron Isles. "Yes. Youngest of eight sons. Came to King's Landing as a fisherman when he was a boy. Ran away from home, I believe. Always bragged about his blood. Nobody took him seriously because of his drunkenness and frequent visits to the déclassé pub Mermaid's Nipple."

So that's where they're going. Why Ramsay sees him fit to join, Theon does not dare ask.

They walk mostly in the open streets. Theon suddenly understands why Ramsay prefers the tunnels. Most of the smallfolk dismiss him, but a scarce few, ah, how they see him for what he is. Their heads fall, eyes downcast, scratching themselves in anticipation, attempting to become so small and insignificant that he will not notice them. The sun is gleaming gold and the shadows become even darker.

Ramsay becomes darker.

The tang of salty fish and seaweed greets them as they near the docks. This is a denser area, and they disappear right into the crowd. "No tunnels here," Ramsay whispers to Theon. "Fishermen are one of the groups that see themselves above secrets and faith. And intelligence, really. Let me do the talking."

MERMAID'S NIPPLE is painted on a sign. The building is half demolished. Laughter can be heard from within. Women who walk by gives the pub disgusted looks. Ramsay goes into an alley near it, scaring some stray cats, and walks right into the backdoor of the pub.

The insides are worse than the outside, if possible. A big nosed, freckled boy washes the dishes in the kitchen section, humming on _the Bear and the Maiden Fair_. Ramsay takes him by surprise. He is not particularly bright, staring dumbfounded at them for a small eternity. Then he's all fire and brimstones (one of adolescence's weaker gifts), pointing fingers at them, squawking, "You can't be here! This is for workers _only_!"

Ramsay merely waits, arms folded behind his back. The washer boy's rant does not have an effect.

"What is this ruckus?!" someone shouts.

"Trespassers! Thieves!"

The man comes from around a corner, beard braided and eyes like a storm, "Oh I'll show who dares to—" He sees Ramsay. Sees the washer boy, who waves a soup ladle at them. Goes white. Then red. Then white again. "Eustache, out right now."

"B—"

"If you don't move your freckled ass out of here I'll send you back to your whore mother _is that understood_?!"

"Yes sir!"

Layden regains his normal colour. "Sorry for that, Acolyte Ramsay. Lad's new. A favour for my brother." The rough looking pub owner is not scared shitless by Ramsay, but the acolyte does unnerve him a great deal with his pale wolfish eyes. "What can I do for you?"

"Answer my questions."

"I'll do it to the best of my ability. Do you want anything to drink?"

"A glass of water would be nice." Upon receiving it, he does not drink, and hands it to Theon, who doesn't dare drink it either. Ramsay lists the facts, "Eyjolf. Dwelled here. You knew him well. Found dead last night."

"We heard. You haven't come to interrogate us for not tellin', have you? People here don't want nothing to do with maesters or septons."

"No. I am not one of them. I want the truth. Did Eyjolf truly say he was of House Sunderly?"

"Aye. Nobody believed him though. Not even his friends. Can't say I knew him personally, since had more friends among visitors than those working here."

"Then they're the ones I should question, yes?"

"Don't know if that'd be a good idea. See, I respect you... or rather, to be honest, I know what you can do.

The people here? They don't get it. Tread with caution."

Ramsay does not heed the warning. Instead he paces out of the kitchen and onto the pub itself. Theon stays beside Layle, who eye him and mutters something like _"thought he preferred girls"_. The laughter and chat from the pub quiet. The acolyte leans on the counter. He is not uncomfortable being the centre of (bad) attention—in fact, he seems used to being surrounded by people who wish him ill. The men elbowed at the counter sit up straight, as if touching the same surface as Ramsay will infest them with disease. The only one who doesn't care about Ramsay is a child in a corner.

He makes sure his wolfish gaze has swept over all of them. Under it, they feel a wind blow through their souls. "Which one of you scumbags know Eyjolf Sunderly the best?"

The braver (dumber) ones stand up. A sailor says, "You're not welcome here."

"I'll leave when I'm finished."

"I don't think you get it, basta—"

"If you say one more word, Ormond, I'll tell everyone about what really happened to your aunt Betsy."

The man sits down, white as a sheet.

"Now tell me who know Eyjolf Sunderly the best."

Being this early, drinking hasn't affected their senses. Therefore the interrogation is briefer: one hand points south, then another, and another. In the end they're all silently pointing at a whalelike, sleeping woman in the corner. Those objecting the tattling—though too sober to do anything about it—leaves the pub, haunted by the things they could've said or done and in the end resigning with the thought that others could've done things, too. "Thank you," Ramsay says smoothly. He gets the glass of water from Theon, who wisely remains in the shadows. In the other hand, there is the glint of a blade. More people leave because of that.

Ramsay splashes the glass of water in the sleeping woman's face. The woman gasps and splutters obscenities.

"Good MORNING!" Ramsay shouts, grinning madly.

The woman roars, standing up. She's shorter than Ramsay, but makes up for what she lacks in height with width. Her hair thin and skin ghastly from years of substance abuse and continual over eating. The knights who said women can never pose a threat on the battlefield have never visited a dirty King's Landing pub. But Ramsay is fast.

As she raises her arms, the sagging fat underneath dangling, there's a little prickle at one of her chins.

"Do you feel that?" Ramsay asks. "That's the tip of a flaying knife. You see, they're too fragile for combat, but are just perfect for skinning, with their curved cutting belly. Small controlled movements. Or perhaps you're interested in removing some of that loose skin? Forget diets, this is permanent. You won't be complaining about sore feet or backpain after you've felt the kiss of a flaying knife."

"Don't."

Ramsay pauses. He pushes the knife a millimetre further in before removing it. He puts it in its sheath and in one of his many hidden pockets. "Now that we have an understanding, I want everything you can give me on Eyjolf."

A little later, they're both at the table. Theon stands a distance behind Ramsay. At her puzzled look, Ramsay merely says he's a servant of a sort. Layle serves them watered down ale.

"...He told the truth. Really, he did. Told me stories about his time at Saltcliffe. His father's foul salt wives. The potato liquor production in the cellar. A soothsayer that read in fish guts. Eyjolf wasn't creative enough to make that all up."

"Did you see anyone talking to Eyjolf with an interest in his background?"

"Lots of people tried to make him confuse facts and fiction when he was drunk. Always failed. He was proud of his house. Still, he stopped saying he'd go back years ago."

"So there were no mysterious circumstances you'd like share?"

"Every day's the same down here. Nothing happens except an occasional extramarital pregnancy, animals running off and a beggar dying in the streets. Dunno what sick fuck would kill poor old Eyjolf. How did he die, exactly?"

"Can't say. I'm just here for questions." Sitting there at the small stone table, shrugging, he looks rather normal. Theon, however, has seen his features warp uncannily. He wonders if it's his own projections that make Ramsay into such a monster, or if it's his ability to read men that allows him to see Ramsay's true face. Not that he blends in completely—he is still a dark presence, like a rat in the company of mice. Theon, in comparison, is the palest, weakest mouse. "Are you certain there's nothing you can tell us?"

It's her turn to shrug.

Theon bites his tongue. It isn't enough. The question burns its way out, "Did he ever mention Blacktyde?"

He startles the woman, who'd forgotten his presence.

"_Quiet_," Ramsay sneers.

The woman looks at Theon, then down, squinting. Then the eyelids twitch in realization. "Like the myth about the drowned children?" Theon nods quickly. "I remember that one. Fuck, I'd like to forget it. I challenged Eyjolf to tell a scary but true story. Moon was up, night was cool and King's Landing was dozing off. After a couple of drinks the shithead claimed he'd _heard_ the children. Nearly pissed myself 'cos of a wailing cat when I walked home."

"Where there other people there when you told the story?" Ramsay asks.

"Sure there was... There was Joffar, Layle of course, Lodmore, Arthor..." she continued listing names that had no effects on Ramsay. He must've known them all. Theon suspects he doesn't go anywhere without researching the place first. Finally, he uncrosses his arms as she mentions, "...and some queer, scrawny old man..."

"How was he queer, exactly?"

"Didn't say anything for starters. Didn't order anything more than oatbread and oxtail soup back when Layle had a real chef—not that sissy Eustache—and just sat there all night, staring into it."

"Anything else?"

"Uhm... Uh, he didn't dress weird. But the cloak was too big, because he was really thin, like, thinner than your servant here. His hair was gray, I think. Or completely white. Oh, oh! He also had this huge hairy mole on his back. We saw it through a hole in his cloak." There it was! Something that separated their mystery man from the rest of King's Landing. "Not sure, but he asked Eyjolf something afterwards. Didn't catch what. Touched his shoulder, like they were chummy."

"Killers often have tendencies to try bond with their victims, if it's not already established, sometimes even post mortem. Ignoring wars, most people are murdered by someone they know."

"What?"

"Eyjolf Sunderly was an inconsequential lowlife, but someone saw him important enough to slice open and stuff his belly with silver, only to sew it shut again and display him on a wall like a sacrifice. _Yes_. That is what happened to him. I suspected no one wanted to tell you since you were in love with him."

A breathing space.

Ramsay inhales. Theon exhales.

Tears on the floorboards. The woman is crying, mouth forming inaudible sentences, skin flabs shimmying. (A little—_big_—dreary dance. Pathetic.) Ramsay cuts people in more ways than one. His knife is _secrets_, and he knows precisely where to put it so viscera slobber out.

"Now that you know the truth, I must advice you to be more careful giving out information in the future. I don't want you telling anyone else what you told me. Nor do I want you to say me or my companion visited here. You never spoke to us." Ramsay rises as he speaks, watching everyone in the Mermaid's Nipple, allowing them to realize they're part of the deal. He uses this speech quite often. He needn't say "or else", because it hangs in the air like a subtitle.

Ormond rises, steadying himself on a chair to not fall. He's been glaring at Ramsay during the entirety of their conversation, but he's half deaf after an accident with a canon so Ramsay allowed him to sit close. "You... can't just order us 'round... You're a bloody bastard! You have... toxic blood! You know nothing about us!" The rest is slurring, incoherent insults. Ramsay has stopped listening. The change is abrupt, quick, and deadly.

Theon sees it.

The curling of his fingers. The sneer. The half lidded, twitching eyes. The tilting of his head.

_'Destruction in the flesh.'_

The walk over to Ormond is over in a second. He is standing right in front of Ormond, and although the drunk is a head taller, he somehow shrinks in Ramsay's presence.

"I know many things, Ormond. I know about the sexual diseases you've transmitted over the years. I know you sometimes help your old lady landlord in the garden. I know who you fucked last night, and who you thought of while doing it." He lets that one sink in. "I know the whole of you—and therefore, I can destroy you."

Then, slowly, he bends down and whispers something in Ormond's ears.

It doesn't really matter what.

What matters is that Ormond falls to his knees, then his arms, and starts kissing Ramsay's boots. Ramsay kicks him away, gives three more into his ribs for good measure, then dries the spit on Ormond's shirt. The man does not stir. He takes it while weeping. "I'll send a bitch to collect the fee," Ramsay says coldly. The pub has gone completely silent. No one makes a move to help the weeping man.

But a good dog owner knows when to punish, and when to reward.

"Thanks for not interfering with my business." He reaches into his pocket, and brings fort a big bag of rattling coins. They all hurry to the front desk, pushing each other aside, men and women becoming animals in their search for petty pleasures.

Layle does not. One of his hands are on the freckled boy's shoulders, forcing him to watch.

_This is Acolyte Ramsay. I want you to observe what he can do._


End file.
